


Right Side of Wrong

by Donut_Lich



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Character Death, Character Development, Complicated Relationships, Death, Developing Friendships, Game: Destiny 2: Forsaken DLC, Game: Destiny 2: Shadowkeep DLC, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Plot, Post-Game: Destiny 2: Forsaken DLC, Redemption, Revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22456690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donut_Lich/pseuds/Donut_Lich
Summary: The line between light and dark is so very thin. What side of that line is Cyril-9 on?A story about a grief stricken Guardian on a quest for revenge after the murder of former Hunter Vanguard, Cayde-6. Is it the right thing to do or will it only lead to more hurt? Can murder really make things right?
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter One: Last Call

**Author's Note:**

> Hello,
> 
> This is fic begins during the events of Forsaken and will continue through Shadowkeep following the story of my Exo Hunter, Cyril, as well as a handful of other original characters. Including my lovely roommate's guardian, Nox. My roommate was also my editor for the first few chapters, so thank her for the slightly more competent work I've put out.
> 
> Some canon characters will appear in this fic, but they will all be supporting characters/mentioned sparsely so I haven't tagged this with any of their names. Additionally, there will be a few scenes taken from the in game's story/cutscenes, though only sparingly and with slight alterations.

**Chapter 1: Last Call**

“I’m not going to help you with this senseless and  _ petty  _ dispute. I have important work to do.”

“It’s not petty! Nox,  _ please _ . I need you,” pleaded the Exo, reaching out and placing a hand on the Warlock’s shoulder. She shrugged him off coldly. His face reflected back at him in the visor of her helmet. Sometimes he wished she would take that damn thing off. “ _ I can’t do this alone _ .”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t do it at all.” She was only growing more and more frustrated with this argument. “There are more important things to worry about than running off to kill the Awoken Queen’s brother and his Fallen friends.”

“I need this. Please, I need to make them pay for what they did.”

“Oh? And what about this do you  _ need? _ ” Her voice was like a dagger in his chest. “Will killing Uldren make you feel better?”

“Hey, don’t you act like this is about nothin’!  _ It’s not _ ,” he argued, his voice laced with anger and pain. “This is about makin’ things right!  _ This is about Cayde _ .”

“And will killing Uldren bring Cayde back?” There was scorn in her voice now, and finality. “Cayde was a Guardian, Cyril, and Guardians risk their lives. He knew the risks and so did you. No mission is a guaranteed return. It’s a terrible loss, but we can’t lose sight of what’s important. The Fallen are scavengers, and the Hive are still the greatest threat to humanity. Or have you forgotten that your role is  _ protecting _ humanity?”

“Why can’t you just do this with me?” asked Cyril. He paused, placing both palms on the book-covered desk. He shook his head as he offlined his optics, trying to push down the hurt he felt, though he had no such luck. “Cayde was important to me. He was my friend. How would you feel if I died, Nox?”

She was silent for a long moment.

“It would be  _ unfortunate _ ,” she replied, her tone neutral and emotionless. “I always regret losing a valuable soldier.”

“ _ But what about a friend? _ ”

“You are not my  _ friend _ , you are my coworker,” Nox retorted.

The Exo froze, completely speechless. Had he heard her right? Did she really just say that? There was a pang of pain in his chest that only seemed to get worse and worse. Like someone was trying to pull what made him tick out through his mouth. It was the second most painful thing he had experienced today.

Devastated, Cyril looked up at her and finally managed to ask, “ _ What? _ ”

“You are a skilled Hunter and a valuable asset, and you have been an important part of my fireteam, but I do not  _ have _ friends.” That unyielding mask of metal betrayed no emotion. “You shouldn’t take it personally; I am a soldier first and nothing second. You have to understand this, right?

Finally a bit of genuine emotion was creeping into her voice, and she made uncoordinated gestures with her hands as she tried to explain herself.

“We are Guardians. It is our duty to fight the forces of Darkness and defend humanity. That should be our primary concern, don’t you think?”

The Hunter straightened, staring at her as he processed what she had just told him. He felt betrayed. He had been with her since the Infinite Forest.  _ Since Panoptes _ . They had fought Xol together. He thought of her as family and now she was telling him that they weren’t even friends?

“I think it’s high time that I leave,” he said, shaking his head. “We’re done here. Find yourself another useful  _ tool _ .”

She tilted her head at him briefly before turning back to her work. She wouldn’t even look at him. She was just  _ dismissing _ him.. “Fine. Do what makes you happy, Cyril. I wish you the best, sincerely. If you come to your senses, you know where to find me.”

“Sure,” he said, already turning to leave her study. He had to get far, far away from her. Her words hurt him. They made the pain he felt for Cayde even worse. It seemed that Cayde was the only person he had any real connection to and now he was gone.

Extending his hand, the Guardian summoned his Ghost. The little light looked up at him. His shell expressing a sorrowful look.

“Cyril, I—”

“It’s fine, Albedo,” he said, his voice quiet and defeated. “Just get me to my ship… We’re going to the Tangled Shore.”

The Ghost hesitated. His Guardian wore his heart on his sleeve, and that unfortunately got him hurt more times than the Ghost cared to see. Albedo wanted nothing more than to help. He wanted to make his Guardian feel better, but he wasn’t sure how. What could be done to take the edge off the wound Nox left him with? What could be done to lessen the sting of losing Cayde? Would this quest really help him or would it only agitate his wounds?

Not knowing the answer, the Ghost simply nodded and transmitted Cyril aboard his ship. If his Guardian wanted to track down Prince Uldren, then what say did he have in the matter?

Once in the cockpit of his ship, the Guardian began flipping switches as his Ghost plotted course for the Tangled Shore. It took only a few moments before the ship was pointed towards their destination, speeding along through the vast expanse ahead of them.

Cyril kept his sights on the space ahead, silent as he piloted the ship. It would be only a few minutes before they arrived at the Tangled Shore. Once they were there, he could make things right. He could avenge Cayde. He could—

He huffed, leaning forward and resting his forehead against the control panel. After a moment, he sat back up, turning in his seat as he retrieved the handcannon he kept holstered on his leg. He turned it over in his hand, examining it. Though it was well worn, it was also taken care of. The handcannon had helped him get through many sticky situations. He trusted it. It was like a friend to him. And carved into its grip was her name. _ Nox _ . He had done it himself after they teamed up to battle Panoptes. He stared down at the gun, remembering each encounter they shared. Panoptes, Nokris, Kargen, Xol, and many others. He remembered the times they made light of their situations. The times they made bets and showed off for each other.

He had carved her name into this gun so that he could always remember her,  _ his friend _ . Even if his mind slipped.

With a sorrowful sigh, he dismantled the weapon, taking it apart and stashing the pieces with the rest he had piled up. Now there was nothing left to remember.

“Cyril,” piped up his Ghost, “we’re here.”

The Guardian stood, retrieving a new weapon from his collection. “Good. Get me to the surface…”

* * *

“Well, if it isn’t Petra Venj, the worst jailer in the solar system!” The large Fallen laughed, shifting in his makeshift throne made from the remains of a walker. He leaned back turning his four glowing, blue eyes away from his visitors. “What brings you to my home away from home  _ away from home _ ? On the run, are we?”

“I heard you lost the shore,” replied Petra pointedly.

The Fallen huffed, his composure lost as he leaned forward to motion at her. “ _ You _ lost my shore.”

“Thought you might want some help getting it back,” offered Petra, looking back over her shoulder at the Guardian standing just behind her.

Cyril stepped forward into the warm light of the Spider’s lair. The Guardian looked up at the Spider as he gawked at him, surprised by his presence.

“A Guardian! And where oh where, pray tell, is its Ghost?” the Spider asked sinisterly as he presented a dead Ghost clutched in one of his hands.

“Nevermind the Ghost,” said Petra. “There were two Guardians at the Prison of Elders when it fell: Cayde-6 and this one. The three of us want the same thing, Spider. Uldren and his Barons.  _ Dead _ .”

“What it is you’re— Oh ho ho,  _ I see _ ,” he laughed. The sound was enough to make Cyril uneasy. This guy didn’t seem trustworthy. “Despite our clear, mutually aligned interests, I’m sorry, but I can’t help but feel it is  _ I _ who will come up short.”

The Spider continued and the Guardian’s gaze shifted down the knife Petra was reaching for. Whether her plan was to threaten him or kill him was unclear. Either way their chance of getting this slimey bastard’s help would be dashed. It was a risk they could not afford.

“You go scratch your itch and we can just say that  _ you owe me _ .”

Cyril reached down and took Petra’s wrist, guiding her knife back into its sheath. Then he took a step forward, looking up at the Spider with his expressionless face. He hardly trusted this guy, but it seemed like he had no other options. The Spider had the information that he needed.

“ _ Deal _ .”

The Spider seemed pleased with his answer, leaning back in his seat with a low, triumphant laugh. He beckoned the Guardian over, eyes locked in the dead Ghost he fiddled with as he motioned with a different hand.

“Before I give you the location of the Barons’ soiree, the Prison of Elders continues to leak like a sieve.  _ Someone  _ should clean up the mess before traipsing off for murder and mayhem,” he said as the Exo stepped forward, standing before him. “What do you say,  _ friend _ , quid pro quo before you go?”

“Fine. I’ll play janitor and clean up,” answered the Guardian, pulling out his knife and spinning it idly as he talked. He was a Guardian, so surely whatever task he had for him was doable. “Got any marks in particular you need to me take care of?”

The Spider snorted, retrieving some of his bounties, cards with names and locations on them. He reached out and handed them to the Guardian. Each one was for a different escapee. All of which looked like tough customers. Cyril looked through them, remembering the names and locations before nodding.

“Consider it as good as done,” he said with a nod.

“Good,” said the Spider. “Just remember that I find failure to be...  _ inexcusable _ . Come back with their heads or don’t bother coming back at all.”

“ _ You won’t have to worry about that _ . I’ll get it taken care of.” That said, the Guardian sheathed his knife and turned to leave the Spider’s lair. He had his marks and he was determined to deliver. Everything was on the line. He had to do it and he had to do it quick.  _ For Cayde _ . Things needed to be made right.

Doing this would make things right. Wouldn’t it?

“I don’t like that guy,” Albedo said, still hiding from out of sight. “He rubs me the wrong way. He’s a criminal, he’s slimey, and—”

“He’s got a collection of dead Ghosts,” added Cyril.

“ _ Yeah _ , that would be the biggest reason why I don’t like him,” the Ghost huffed. “He just gives me the creeps. He’s bad news, I swear!”

“Believe me, Al, if I didn’t need him I wouldn’t be here. But he’s got what we need. We don’t have time to run around tryin’ to find out where Uldren and the Barons went ourselves. We need him.”

“I-I know,” Albedo sighed. He wished his Guardian would change him mind about all of this. He wished they could turn back and pretend none of this had happened. But he knew they couldn’t. “I guess we’ll just have to grin and bear it, but don’t ever take me out when he’s around. Got it?”

The Guardian chuckled half heartedly. “I won’t.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise, Al,” he said. “ _ I promise _ .”

“Thank you… Now, let’s go hunt some prison escapees, shall we,” said Albedo in a more chipper tone. If he couldn’t fix what had happened, then he would at least try to make things less tense for his Guardian. “Which one’s first?”

“Hm…” The Guardian hand went to his chin as he thought over the list of names given to him. “Zhau'uan. He’s a Cabal. Somewhere in Soriks Cut.”

“And where’s that?”

The Guardian shrugged, an amused chuckle escaping him. “You’re the Ghost, Al. What’s on the map?”

“Oh, right! Yes, let me just take a—  _ Alright _ , I’ve got a waypoint marked for you,” said Albedo. “It doesn’t look too far ahead. We should be able to get there in no time on your sparrow.”

Hopefully this—  _ all of this  _ would be over quickly.


	2. Chapter Two: The Scoundrel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new character arrives on the scene.

**Chapter 2: The Scoundrel**

The Fallen Scoundrel raced after his target on hands and feet.

He dashed to keep visual as he descended deep into an old, desolate scrap-hovel. Taking cover behind a load-bearing column, he peered out carefully to survey the surroundings. Just ahead was the Scoundrel’s mark, a crafty Chieftain commanding a pack of Scorn.

The Chieftain was notorious around the Tangled Shore for his raiding operations. His name was known by every Fallen, Cabal, and Hive that inhabited this stretch of lifeless rock. And it was because of that infamy that the Chieftain had garnered the attention of the Spider, who wanted his head. And unfortunately for the Chieftain, the Scoundrel was determined to free himself from the Spider’s sticky web.

Cloaked by pilfered stealth technology, the Scoundrel was invisible to his prey. He slipped closer and closer to the unknowing Chieftain, who was scanning the area for aggressors. Closing in for the kill, the Scoundrel sneaked up behind his mark, readying his blade. The lone Fallen was about to take the kill when a bright light appeared beside him.

The light burst into smaller lights that hummed to life, splitting up between himself and the Chieftain. The Scoundrel bolted away from the explosive drones that followed, but his reflexes were not quick enough to get out completely unscathed. A small, forceful explosion knocked the Fallen into a wall, causing his cloaking to peeter out.

The Chieftain, who had taken damage from the grenade, rallied his troops back to him and dropped an Ether shield.

The Scoundrel cursed in his native tongue. It seemed his smooth assassination plan was a bust, but who had thwarted him? No Scorn carried grenades like that. No, the Scoundrel had seen a grenade like that one before.

A Guardian. Oh, how the Scoundrel hated Guardians. They had a nasty habit of stealing his marks. The Spider did not take failure kindly, whether the bounty wound up dead or not. The Scoundrel had to take out the Chieftain. He had worked too hard to get on the Spider’s good side to have to start at square one once again. So he would have to kill the Chieftain first.

An idea came to the clever Scoundrel. Perhaps that Guardian could be of use to him. Yes, he could use the Guardian to get exactly what he wanted. All he had to do was wait.

The Scoundrel activated his cloaking device once more, skittering away from his hiding place just in time for two Raiders to take his place. A vantage point was found and the Scoundrel lowered himself behind an old, empty cache. He watched as the Guardian quickly thinned the Scorn’s numbers. When the Guardian’s sights turned on the Chieftain himself, the Scoundrel prepared to make his move, crawling quickly towards the lone Chieftain’s cover, ready to pounce and claim the kill as his own.

However, the Scoundrel was halted by a familiar, grating hum and wisps of blue, corrupted ether filling the derelict room. Backup had arrived.

Exposed by the lingering wisps of ether, the mace of a Raider was brought down on the Scoundrel’s back, crushing his cloaking device. Wincing, the Scoundrel retaliated by sinking the blade of his staff into the gut of the Scorn. The Scoundrel pulled his blade from the Raider’s limp body with a sickening squelching sound. The corpse toppled to the floor with a thump and clank.

A shot whizzed past the Scoundrel’s head, piercing the skull of a Scorn Raider with a breathy hiss as corrupted ether spewed into the air. Looking back, the Scoundrel locked eyes with the Guardian. Or at least it appeared so. The Guardian’s eyes were not visible behind the helmet he wore.

Their staring match was interrupted by attackers. Slashing fiercely, the Scoundrel cut a path for himself, slicing down Scorn after Scorn. The sound of the Guardian’s gun rang, drowning out the sound of the Scorns’ dying breaths as the two carved into the horde.

As the fight waged on, the Guardian moved within reach of the Scoundrel’s arc staff, a mistake that the Fallen was more than happy to take advantage of. Turning from the Scorn he had just slashed down, the Scoundrel swung his staff with great force. The Guardian dodged back out of the way, throwing a knife in turn. The knife missed, but it exploded far behind the Fallen.

The Guardian was too sharp a shot for that to have been an accident. It was a warning. For a moment the two simply stared at each other as bullets whizzed past them. The Scoundrel’s gaze shifted to the gun pointed directly at him. He winced as the Guardian pulled the trigger. Behind the Eliskni was the telltale sound of ether hissing from a wound as a Scorn Stalker toppled to the ground.

“ _Behind you_ .” His tone said it all. _Keep your eyes on the real enemy_.

The Scoundrel cursed in Eliksni, pretending he did not understand what the Guardian had said, but the warning was heeded. For now anyway. The Scoundrel returned his gaze to the fight, slashing a Stalker’s throat and spilling coagulated blood on the metal floor. The Guardian fired more rounds into the oncoming horde, stopping to introduce his knife to a Scorn who had attempted to flank the two of them.

An ether bind was thrown behind the two, pulling them back and forcing their backs against a wall. The Chieftain called from the other side of the room, “[Enjoy the gifts, boys!]”

The insult was lost on the Guardian, but the Scoundrel cursed the Chieftain in return, though his profantities were lost in the terrible screeching as more corrupted ether filled the room.

With several flashes and the putrid stench of rot, the room was filled with an overwhelming amount of Screebs. The Guardian opened fire, spraying a barrage of bullets into the oncoming mob of explosive pests. The Scoundrel, who was ill-equipped to handle these mindless Scorn, turned his attention to the trap that ensnared them. With a slash of his spear, the ether bind shattered, freeing the both of them. The Scoundrel discarded his spear, dodging to the side towards a Scorn corpse to retrieve a prize. A repeater pistol.

Turning back to the action, the Scoundrel pulled the trigger, a stream of arc charges zipping past the Guardian. The Screeb exploded on impact with a boom that rattled some scrap loose from the ceiling.

The Guardian dodged as the metal came crashing down, crushing more of the skittering hordes and causing more explosions that rattled the underground building. More scrap fell from the unstable ceiling above, caving in around the Scoundrel and the Guardian.

Their options for escape were narrowed, leaving them at the end of a funnel with the remaining Screebs barreling towards them.

With their backs against a wall once again, the Guardian stepped forward, standing between the Scoundrel and the mob before reaching a hand up into the air. Then, with a crack of triumphant thunder, the Guardian plucked a flaming gun of golden sunlight. Aiming down the sights of his golden gun, the Guardian shot down Scorn after Scorn, six total, burning them to a crisp with the heat of each solar bullet.

The Scoundrel watched from behind the Guardian’s back, gripping the repeater pistol he had stolen. When the Guardian looked back at the Scoundrel after the dust began to settle, he was met with a repeater pistol held to his face point blank. The Scoundrel pulled the trigger.

He stood over the downed Guardian, watching as his Ghost came to his rescue. The little machine worked quickly to revive its light-bearer. It would be so easy to end this Guardian once and for all. The Scoundrel could crush his Ghost and rid the world of one more Guardian.

However, the Scoundrel walked past the Ghost and collected his spear from the wreckage. Seeing that their target had long since escaped, the Scoundrel would follow suit. He would have to free himself from the Spider’s web some other way.

* * *

“His name is Valik, the _Scoundrel_ . A Fallen without a banner. Notorious around these parts for stealing what _isn’t his_ ,” the Spider explained, reclining back in his seat. He played idly with the Ghost in his hand.

“What’s his deal?” Cyril asked, taking half a step closer to the Eliksni crime lord.

“His _deal_ is that he’s a nobody, _Lightmonger_ . He’s a cowardly Marauder that barely escaped his own _docking_ ,” the Spider said, his attention turning back to the Guardian. “Trounces around with only three arms.”

“Does he work for you?”

The Spider chuckled darkly, nodding in reply. “In a way, yes. He’s not one of my associates. _I would have sent him off to the Drifter if he were_ , but we have… an _arrangement_.”

“What kind of arrangement?”

“You ask too many questions,” the Spider said, leaning forward, motioning to Cyril with the hand that held the dead Ghost. “I agreed to answer a _few_ questions. Why, I just might have to charge extra if you keep it up. My time is _valuable_ , _as I’m sure you know_ . Wouldn’t want to give up too much information with _so little_ gain.”

Cyril shook his head. “Fine, then I want to change my last question. Where can I find him?”

The Spider regarded the Guardian with a glare before leaning back in his seat. “He takes up residence on the High Plains,” he answered. “Has a stolen Skiff hidden somewhere among the rocks. He’s paranoid. Likes to move around. But he shouldn’t be too hard to find. Just follow the trail of torn Dusk banners. He has a real knack for venting his frustrations.”

The Guardian nodded, thankful that the Spider had decided to humor him. He turned to leave, but was stopped when the large Eliksni held up a hand, signalling him to stay put.

“Before you go, Guardian, I have a question of my own.” The Spider leaned in closer to the Guardian, staring down at the eyeless face of the Exo before him. “What do you hope to accomplish by seeking out this nobody?”

Cyril shifted under the Spider’s quizzical gaze. He turned his head away as he pulled the cowl of his cloak over his head. “We fought well together,” was all Cyril said before turning and leaving the Spider’s lair.

The Guardian departed from Thieves Landing and made his way to the High Plains. The scattered asteroids created many places to look for a hidden Skiff. However, the Spider’s tip remained at the forefront of Cyril’s thoughts as he searched the plains for the Scoundrel. He was determined to cross paths once more.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea, Cyril. He did try to kill you,” Albedo said with a worried tone.

“But he walked away, Al,” Cyril replied, leaping a gap between tethered asteroids. “He coulda put an end to the both of us, but he didn’t.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean he spared you or that he’s trustworthy,” the Ghost argued.

“Oh, I don’t trust him. Not as far as I can throw him, but I’m thinkin’ that I could use some help on this mission of ours.” The Guardian held out his hand for his Ghost to appear in front of him. “We couldn’t get the Barons all at once… I think I’m gonna need the backup.”

“But what about Nox? Wouldn’t she make a better partner,” asked Albedo.

Cyril stopped in his tracks. He shook his head, looking away from his Ghost. “You know she won’t help us.” The Guardian sighed, sounding almost agitated. “She thinks that I’m being _unreasonable_. She doesn’t see that I need this.”

“And what do you need, Cyril,” the Ghost asked urgently. “Will this make you feel better? And what is this? Is it retribution? _Is it revenge? I just want to understand—_ ”

“Al, _please_ …”

“ _Fine_. I know that this… means a lot to you. Just remember that you’re the good guy.” It was clear that the Ghost was uncomfortable with all of this, but he knew his Guardian better than anyone. Albedo trusted that he would come to his senses sooner or later. “The Spider said that Valik is a thief and it looks like there’s a Dusk base just north of us putting out a distress signal. It’s not a great lead, but it’s a start.”

The Guardian nodded. “Thank you, Al. I’ll get us right to it.”

He moved with purpose as he traversed the uneven terrain of the shore, bounding over rocky hills and leaping across wide gaps as he made a beeline towards the northern base. When Cyril arrived at the base, he crouched behind a large rock and scouted through the sights of his sniper rifle. The base was more beat up than the usual Fallen scrap-hovel. It looked like a battle had taken place and it was a battle that Dusk had clearly lost given the number of bodies left strewn around the territory.

Near the doorway Dregs and Vandals patrolled the entrance. Like to dissuade any other attacks. That, or they were all that was left.

“Do you think it was Valik who did this? Seems unlikely. He was just a Marauder,” commented Albedo.

“And who do you think it was? _The Scorn?_ ”

“Or the Spider.”

“No,” Cyril said, shaking his head. “If it were the Spider, no one would be left alive. He doesn’t take too kindly to _thieves_. We’ve handled a few of those cases, remember?”

“And the Scorn?”

“Well, if it can’t be the Spider, then is sure as hell can’t be the Scorn. If it were,” Cyril said as he eyed a nearby corpse through the sights of his gun, “I reckon there would be no bodies left behind.”

The Guardian took another look around through the sights of his sniper rifle. He examined more of the surroundings, taking in the full scene in front of them. It was then that he saw it: a Dusk banner, once hung proudly near the entrance, now torn down and left in the dirt.

“Hey, Al, remember what the Spider said to look out for?”

The Ghost gave a curious robotic hum as he caught sight of what his Guardian had. “Huh. I guess we’ve found our trail then.”

“That we have, partner.” The Guardian took the first shot with his trusty sniper rifle. The clap of the shot rang through the open terrain of the High Plains. Four more claps rang out and the last of the Fallen left to guard the base were down for the count.

When no new Fallen came rushing out, the Guardian took that as his cue to get in and have a closer look around. He strolled up to the base.

The closer he got to the scene, the more apparent the damage was. There were scorch marks from Spark grenades and shrapnel cannons. the doorway was beginning to collapse and Metal plating was slipping out of place, looking as if it were about to fall apart any minute now. For a single three-armed Fallen, Valik had certainly done a number on this place.

The Guardian’s sights turned to the dirt. For the most part, there was not much to see. It was clear from the number of distorted footprints that a skirmish had taken place here, but the tracks gave little distinction of what direction Valik had escaped in. That is, until the Guardian caught sight of something just a few yards away.

Reaching down and plucking the object from the dirt, the Guardian turned it over in his hand. His fingers traced a hole in the object.

“An ether tank,” mused Albedo. “It looks like it was damaged in the fight.”

“Looks like it exploded too.” Cyril shifted his gaze to the ground near where he found it. At the center of the battle field was an unmistakably Fallen. The Guardian got to his feet and followed the strides. “Looks like he took off this way after losin’ that tank. He was makin’ a break for it.”

The Guardian followed the footsteps west, his gaze locked on the trail leading them. However, the trail ended seemingly without a trace, leaving the Guardian standing in the middle of nowhere, but he was not deterred. Cyril searched for more clues. There had to be something here that would lead them in the right direction.

“The dirt looks like it’s been disturbed.”

Cyril knelt down and examined where the footprints stopped. The Guardian could see that the patch of dirt was pushed back. It looked as if it were caused by the wind, however the Guardian knew that wasn’t the case. The patch was too localized and the wind was blowing in another direction.

“A pike,” the Guardian mused. “Must’ve parked it here before going the rest of the way on foot.”

“Makes it hard to destroy the getaway vehicle,” Albedo said, thinking out loud. “I’ll see if I can pick up any residual fuel signatures. If I can, then we should be able to track him right to his Skiff. Just give me a moment.”

“While you’re at it, summon my Sparrow.”

The Guardian stood and waited as his ride appeared beside him, watching as his Ghost scanned their surroundings. Finally, Albedo returned to his Guardian.

“I’ll mark the trail for you. It’s not too far from here,” Albedo said. “Assuming he hasn’t relocated already, we should find him there.”

“You’re the best, Al.”

“I know.”

The Guardian and his Ghost left the scene, following the Scoundrel’s trail back to his Skiff. The beaten and battered ship was cradled snugly between two of the asteroids that composed the shape of the Tangled Shore. The Guardian descended down the rocky path leading to the ship on foot, finding the entrance unguarded. Peculiar for someone the Spider had called paranoid.

The Guardian stood at the entrance, examining the surroundings. There had to be some kind of safeguard. Something to deter intruders. Kneeling down, the Guardian spotted a peculiar looking lens. It was small and nearly invisible. If he had to guess, it was a motion sensor. Looking up, he saw what appeared to be a surveillance camera. From there it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.

“How are we going to get in?” asked the Ghost.

“We’re gonna ring the bell, buddy, and our friend is gonna hear what we have to say.”

Aiming upwards, the Guardian shot the camera out and sparks rained down over him. Then with his foot he crushed the motion sensor and activated the alarm. Stepping back, the Guardian listened as he heard the bell ringing from within the Skiff. His presence had been made known and the Fallen’s eyes on the outside were put out of commission.

“Do you think he’ll come out or flee?” Albedo asked.

“Well,” the Guardian said as the hatch began to open, “I think he’d be too worried about bein’ followed to leave us alive.”

“ _Charming_.”

Now came the negotiations.

There was a Fallen holding a cutlass to the Guardian’s throat. The Scoundrel growled something in Eliskni as he pressed the sharpened edge of the blade hard against the Guardian’s neck. The only thing keeping the Scoundrel from cutting his throat was the gun pressed just under the Fallen’s jaw.

“Long time no see, lil buddy,” Cyril said with a firm tone, unwavered by the dire situation. “Remember me?”

The Scoundrel growled, his narrowing eyes telling the Guardian that he did indeed remember him.

“Well, I came all this way just to have a little talk, _partner_.” He pressed his gun a little harder against the Eliksni’s chin. “I’ve got a deal to make with you. I need your services. If you care to listen, then I’d be more than happy to put my gun away.”

The two stood there in silence for a few moments, their weapons still at each other’s throats. Finally, the Eliksni lowered his cutlass and the Guardian lowered his gun. Taking a few steps back, the Eliksni kept his guard up and his blade angled towards the Guardian.

“ _Speak_ ,” he commanded with a throaty croak.

“Like I said, pal, I just want to enlist your services,” Cyil said, raising his hands defensively. He was hardly afraid of the Eliksni, though he knew better than to disregard the blade pointed at him. “You’re a mercenary, right? Well, I need help takin’ out some Scorn Barons. I can pay you.”

The Scoundrel was silent as he contemplated the Guardian’s words. A moment passed before he answered with a low growl. “ _No_ ,” he croaked.

“Well, that’s not ideal,” the Guardian said, folding his arms over his chest. He tapped his foot as he thought about how he could persuade the Fallen to help him. “If it isn’t glimmer you’re after, then there must be something else you want.”

“No. I do not like Guardians,” Valik barked. “I do not work with Guardians.”

“But you did work with me, remember?” Cyril cocked his head to the side.

Valik grumbled something in Eliskni. “ _Different_ ! That was _different_ ,” he replied sharply. The Eliksni began to back away, the cutlass still pointed towards the Guardian. “Leave! I will not help.”

“Wait!” The Guardian took a step forward and extended a hand. Instinctively, the Fallen lunged forward and pointed his cutlass at the Guardian’s throat again. This time, the Guardian didn’t have time to ready his gun. “ _Shit_.”

This wasn’t going as planned. Valik was too stubborn and he had a bad attitude. There had to be some way to change his mind on all of this. Cyril couldn’t turn back empty-handed. Not after the trek he had made to get out here.

“House Dusk,” the Guardian said, sounding as if he were hit with inspiration. “You hate them, don’t you?”

Valik did not respond.

“I’m a Guardian. We’re pretty good at dealin’ with the Fallen houses,” he continued. He could feel the tip of the blade pressing harder against his throat. “What I’m tryin’ to say is, you scratch my back and I scratch yours. There must be someone you want taken care of. I can help you get your revenge.”

The Fallen cocked his head up, contemplating the offer. After a moment that felt like it lasted forever, Valik’s cutlass lowered and he stepped aside, motioning for the Guardian to enter his Skiff. “Come. _We talk_.”


	3. Chapter Three: Names

**Chapter 3: Names**

Bombs were strewn across the battlefield. The ground shook and rattled with each explosion. Dust and debris were kicked up into the air, filling the small cavern with clouds of brown dust. The Mad Bomber cackled with delight as he lobbed each explosive at the Guardian and the Scoundrel.

A Scorn Grenade landed beside Valik. He hardly evaded the explosion, cursing in Eliksni as he stumbled back on loose footing. He pointed his shock rifle at the Baron and fired at him, the shot missing by a mile as the Baron teleported away.

“You bring us new Scorn,  _ Lightbearer _ ,” laughed Kaniks with an obnoxious tone. “I kill him. Make him  _ Raider! _ No.  _ No! _ I make him  _ Screeb! KABOOM! _ ”

“I will never be Scorn,” barked Valik, firing another shot aimed right at the Bomber’s head. The shot missed again as Kaniks vanished out of sight again.

The Mad Bomber erupted with laughter once again, hucking more bombs at his targets. He was merely toying with them and he was putting them through the wringer. They needed to be aggressive. They needed to be on the offensive, otherwise, they would die to this madman’s bombardment of explosives.

The Guardian chucked a grenade of his own, landing just short of the Scorn’s feet. Kaniks kicked the grenade back towards them and it exploded in the air, raining bright orange embers down on the battlefield.

“You call that a  _ bomb _ ,” cackled Kaniks. “Ha!  _ I show you a bomb! _ ”

Once more the Bomber vanished from sight as a Splinter Mine appeared where he stood. The Guardian and the Scoundrel exchanged a brief look. With an understanding nod, the Guardian made a break for it. His Ghost could defuse the bomb as long as they were close enough to it. Valik, who had this down pat by now, found the highest ground he could. He knew what happened next.

The familiar shriek of Scorn as they entered the battlefield was almost deafening. In wispy clouds of blue smoke, Scorn Ravagers appeared along with several Screebs. Valik aimed, taking out the Screebs first. Most of them were dispatched with one shot.

Cyril, standing near the mine as his Ghost disarmed it, aimed down his sights and aided the Scoundrel in dispatching Kaniks’s cronies.

“We need to take that Bomber out the next time we see him,” said the Guardian over their shared comm link.

“ _ Not so easy to do _ ,” huffed the Fallen, frustration lacing his tone.

“I’ve disarmed the mine,” announced the Ghost.

“Good. He ought to show himself now,” Cyril said, keeping his guard up as he searched for any sign of Kaniks. “We’ve gotta get aggressive with him. We’ve gotta—”

The Guardian’s thought was cut short by Mad Bomber’s irritating cackling echoing through the cavern as he reappeared next to the Scoundrel. Caught off guard, Valik was powerless to stop the Scorn as he was thrown across the cavern. He hit the ground with a thud, a gasp escaping from him as the wind was knocked out of him. His weapon was dropped, landing far from the Scoundrel’s grasp.

Seeing that the Scorn’s attention was on his comrade, the Guardian took advantage of the situation. Leaping into the air, angling himself above the Scorn, Cyril let loose a barrage of explosive blades. The blades pierced flesh and earth, each one exploding with enough force to stagger the Baron.

“How was that for an explosion, big guy,” the Guardian taunted as he backed away from the approaching Baron. He wasn’t afraid. Not in the slightest, but he needed time to reload. “I think I make a better bomber than you do.”

“You think you good? Do you think your bombs scary? Joke at you,” mocked Kaniks as he chucking a grenade towards the Guardian. He watched as the Guardian dodged again, tossing a second grenade where the Guardian dodged. The explosive went off, catching Cyril in its blast and knocking him back into a rocky wall.

The Guardian was dazed. His head spun and his audio receptors rang. The facsimile of a ragged breath escaped from the Exo as he stumbled to his feet. When he looked up, the Baron stood over him.

“Alright, yah got me good with that one,” the Guardian laughed, taunting the Baron.

Kaniks laughed back, reaching down to grab the Guardian, intent on ending the little fly that had been bothering him so persistently. However, the Baron was halted when he felt the shocking sting of an arc bolt. Kanik’s head wrenched to the right, looking back over his shoulder that the culprit.

The Scoundrel hissed something in Eliksni. Something biting and profane. At least from what the Guardian could gather.

Taking this opportunity, Cyril lunged forward with his knife drawn, sinking the blade into the Scorn’s throat. The force and shock of the move were enough for the Guardian to send Kaniks falling backward, landing prone on his back with Cyril on top. The Guardian pushed the blade further into the Baron’s neck, using both hands to keep the blade in place as the Baron struggled beneath his smaller frame.

The light in the Baron’s eyes faded and his struggling ceased as he fell limp and lifeless. Successful in his assassination, the Guardian let out a relieved sigh. The damage he had sustained was repaired as he clambered to his feet. The handy work of his Ghost, who the Guardian was endlessly grateful for.

“Thanks,” the Guardian said to his Ghost, still sounding as if he were out of breath. “And thank you too,  _ Val _ . Don’t think I woulda made it without you.”

“ _ Because you’re reckless _ ,” the Scoundrel grumbled as he closed the distance between them. “You will die before you get your revenge.”

The Guardian chuckled half-heartedly, reaching out with his bloodied hand and patting his bannerless companion’s shoulder. “I just might.”

“Hey, I hate to break up this bonding moment,” Albedo chimed in, “but Kaniks rigged this place to blow. We have got to get a move on.”

* * *

Cyril sat cross-legged across from Valik with his weapon in his lap. His gaze was stuck on the weapon as he cleaned it. It was new. He had acquired it this evening and while it was well worn, it was in decent shape. The Guardian’s mind was busy thinking up names. Almost too busy to notice the Fallen watching his every move.

“I’m not going to use this on you,” Cyril said, his sight still on the weapon. He had assured Valik before, but he knew by now that his words meant almost nothing to the Scoundrel.

Valik grumbled, not acknowledging the kind words. Instead, he looked away from the Guardian, four pale, blue eyes turned to the other weapon at the Guardian’s side. A bow with something written on it, something he noticed about all of this Guardian’s weapons.

“Why do you do that,” asked the Fallen. “Writing on weapons. What is it for?”

Looking up at Valik, the Guardian set his new submachine gun in his lap. “Well,” he began, cocking his head to the side as he spoke, “I fancy namin’ my weapons. Most of the time it’s just some cute nickname. Like my old Sunshot. I call her  _ Sol _ . But some of my weapons I name after people.”

“Do you wish to kill them?”

“ _ No _ . No, I name them after people I want to remember,” answered Cyril with a wave of his hand. “You see, people like me—  _ Exos _ , we have this thing where we lose our memories every so often. It’s called Dissociative Exomind Rejection— DER for short—  _ and apparently _ , I have a pretty bad history with it.  _ ‘Course I don’t remember anything about all that _ , but I figured that this would help. That it would make me remember some names at the very least.”

The Scoundrel nodded slowly in response, though he was still trying to wrap his head around the Guardian’s reasoning.

Seeing that Valik was still confused, Cyril continued to explain, “I do it this way so that  _ when I do lose my mind _ if I bump into ‘em again I’ll know that they’re important to me.  _ This here is Petra _ . We’re not the closest yet, but I like her. She’s a cut above the rest. A real Hunter at heart.”

It was flawed, but he preferred it to recordings or journal entries. He would lose track of those too easily. But his weapons? He never let those slip through his fingers. Besides, he would much rather remember the people he cared about than himself.

“What if they die,” asked Valik, leaning forward curiously. “Do you get rid of the weapon?”

The Guardian shook his head. “No… No, Then I can’t get rid of it. If they die, then I have to remember. I owe them that much.”

For a moment the Scoundrel just stared at the Guardian. Silence fell between them. Valik scanned the Guardian’s near featureless face, trying to read his blank expression. He wondered if the Guardian was really looking at him or if it just seemed that way. It was hard to tell when he didn’t have eyes to follow. And sometimes that was unsettling.

“You are too sentimental, Guardian,” the Scoundrel finally commented. “What would you do if I died? Mourn the Scoundrel? Write my name in the gun?”

Cyril hadn’t expected the question.

“Does it matter,” he asked. Perhaps this was just the Scoundrel being paranoid again. “Look, as long as we’re workin’ together, I won’t let you die. There won’t be any reason to mourn you, you got that?”

When Valik simply sat there staring at him, Cyril shook his head and sighed, his gaze turning back down to the gun in his lap. He wasn’t sure what to say or what he was being asked here. Did Valik want a Guardian to remember him or was Valik simply mocking him? What would he do if Valik died?

Cyril’s mind went to Nox, the hero of the Red War. He thought about their time together and the enemies fought. Cyril had thought of her as a sister, but she saw him as nothing more than a tool. A means to an end. Could he trust this Fallen as much as he had trusted her?

He wasn’t certain.

“What would you want me to do if you kicked the bucket,” he asked, his attention going back to the weapon he was cleaning.

The Fallen looked away as well, moving to sharpen the blade of his arc staff, a favorite weapon of his. “If I die... I do not want to be Scorn.  _ Burn me _ ,” he answered. “After that, do what you like,  _ Guardian _ .”

Cyril nodded. He could see to it that the Scorn never claimed him. His body could be reduced to ash and there would be nothing for the Scorn to take. “You have my word.”

“... And if you die,” asked the Scoundrel, glancing up at the Guardian across from him.

“If I die, just get my cloak to Petra. She’ll know what to do with it.” The answer was too easy to come to. The Guardian had thought about it. And how could he not? How could he dismiss that possibility after losing someone like Cayde? It wasn’t as if he were truly invulnerable.

Sensing that things had gotten too tense, Albedo appeared beside his Guardian. A single, blue optic glancing between Cyril and Valik. Neither were looking at each other, both transfixed with the maintenance of their weapons.

“You two won’t be easy to kill,” Albedo commented. “You’ve already taken down Yaviks and Kaniks. That’s pretty impressive, right?.”

“We almost exploded,” Valik replied.

Perhaps it was time for a change of subject entirely. “Hey, Cyril, how about you tell Valik about some of our adventures.”

The Guardian looked up as his Ghost, cocking his head to the side as he regarded his Ghost with mock suspicion. “Alright, Lil light. Which one?”


	4. Chapter Four: Drive

**Chapter 4: Drive**

Three down. Five Barons down and three more to go. Just three more Barons and they would be able to take out Uldren. This mission was almost at its end and that had Cyril on edge.

The Guardian paced the Scoundrel’s junk-filled skiff. The Scoundrel watched the Guardian’s feverish pacing, idly sharpening a cutlass. He had never seen a Guardian so tightly wound up. It was a strange sight. Most of his life Guardians were nothing more than killers with a thirst for blood, but now he saw that the Guardian was not so different from himself.

“Stop your pacing,” the Scoundrel said, raising his third arm dismissively. “Come. Take a seat, Guardian. Tell me of your worries.”

Cyril stopped and stared at Valik for a moment before nodding and sitting across from his partner. He was tense. That was clear from the way he moved to the way he sat.

“It’s been days,” the Guardian said. “We haven’t heard anything about the last of the Barons. I guess I’m just worried that I won’t get to make things right.”

The Scoundrel stared at the Guardian before his eyes turned back to the cutlass. He raised it above his head, holding it to the light as he searched for any chips of signs of wear to the blade. “You will get your revenge,” he finally replied. “We will kill them soon enough.”

“I know. I know I just have to have patience, but I just—” The Guardian huffed, slamming the back of his fist into the wall behind him.

This startled the Scoundrel. His cutlas was pointed at the Guardian, a warning to not try anything funny. For a moment the two stayed still before the Scoundrel lowered his blade, returning to his work.

“Tell me, Guardian. What drives you?,” asked the Scoundrel. “Why do you wish death on the Scorn?”

Cyril turned his head away. The light in the back of his throat flickering as he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He was silent for a moment as he gathered the strength to speak again. Finally, he nodded slowly and managed to say, “I’m doing this for a friend.”

Valik did not look up from his weapon, continuing to sharpen the blade as he waited for more. When the Guardian said nothing else, he motioned with his third hand for Cyril to go on. “Who is a friend and why do they want Scorn dead?”

“ _ Cayde _ ,” Cyril said, his hands forming fists gripping the fabric of his pants. “Cayde-6, the former Hunter Vanguard. He was a friend of mine. My first friend at the tower. He… I owe him a lot of glimmer.”

He chuckled bitterly. “Never did get around to paying him.”

“So he was killed,” Valik said, his eyes drifting up from the blade. “And the Scorn are to blame?”

“Yes. We were at the Prison of Elders,” Cyril explained. “There was a prison break and we were there to quash it… but things didn’t go as planned. Uldren and his Scorn, they escaped and Cayde— well, I’m sure you can put two and two together.”

“Say it, Guardian.”

“They… They killed him.” It hurt to say those words. It was the most bitter of truths. “They killed his Ghost then Uldren shot him with his own gun.”

“I don’t think we should be talking about this,” said the Guardian’s Ghost.

“No, we must talk about it,” insisted Valik. “Your Guardian is in pain. He is hurt and he is angry. He needs to speak.”

Cyril looked back up at the Scoundrel and asked, “What drives you?”

The Scoundrel went quiet, his eyes returning to his blade. He held his cutlass up again, testing its sharpness against one of his claws. Satisfied with the state of the blade, he set it aside and looked back to the Guardian across from him.

“You already know, Guardian. I want revenge. I wish to bring pain to the Captain who docked me.” He leaned back against the wall behind him, his eyes trained on the Guardian. “You and I, we are the same. We hurt those who hurt us.”

“We’re not here to hurt people, Valik. We’re here for justice,” said Albedo, his single blue optic turning to his Guardian. “Right, Cyril?”

“Justice. Revenge. Is the same,” Valik said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Listen, Guardian, use your pain. Never forget what Scorn did. Never forget what happened to Cayde. Never back down. Always chase the pain in your heart.”

“An eye for an eye,” asked the Guardian, exchanging glances with his Ghost.

The Scoundrel shook his head and stood up from his seat. “No, no, no. They take your eye? You take their life. They hurt you? You hurt them back more.”

“Isn’t that a bit…  _ excessive _ ,” asked the Ghost.

“Maybe,” replied the Scoundrel with a shrug, “but that’s how you survive on the Shore. You make yourself scary so no one else thinks to harm you. They call me the Scoundrel, but I am a survivor!”

“But  _ the Survivor _ doesn’t really have the same ring to it,” Albedo commented.

Cyril laughed, “Hush, Lil light.”

Valik grabbed his cutlass again before motioning for the Guardian to follow. “Come, Guardian. We waste time bothering Dusk now. It will be fun,” he said as he headed towards the hatch of his skiff. “I need more Ether anyway.”

* * *

The Guardian and the Scoundrel emerged from the Hall of the Exalted into the Jetsam of Saturn. The Guardian dusted himself off and kicked Hive gunk off of his boots. Beside him stood the Scoundrel, holding the remains of his favorite shock rifle. A casualty to the battle against the Mindbender.

“You alright there, Val,” Cyril asked, cocking his head to the side as he watched his companion fiddling with the broken weapon.

“It’s broken,” Valik grumbled, cursing to himself as he tried desperately to make it work again. It was hard to come by these shock rifles. Vandals seldom let them slip from their grasps and those left by the dead were usually damaged beyond repair. It would be a long time before the Scoundrel would get his hands on another one.

“That’s always a shame,” the Guardian said, patting the Scoundrel firmly on the back.

Frustrated, the Scoundrel discarded the busted rifle and continued down the path away from the Hive infested territory. He was furious with the loss of one of his favorite weapons, but he could make do with his shock pistols, his arc staff, or his cutlass.

Seeing the Scoundrel was upset, the Guardian jogged up beside him, joining him in leaving this foul-smelling place. For a moment, the Guardian considered his options. He could change the subject, but that would only distract the poor scavenger. He could leave Valik to seethe, but that seemed a bit distant.

Cyril reached for the weapon holstered on his back. It was the gun he had found while hunting Kaniks. It was a plain-looking little submachine gun, but it packed a punch. Humming to himself, he handed the gun over to the Scoundrel.

Valik regarded the weapon with a confused stare before reluctantly taking it. He turned the weapon over in his hands, examining it closely.

“Why are you showing me this,” he asked, confused about the Guardian’s intentions.

“Because it’s yours now,” Cyril laughed, clapping the Scoundrel on the back. “Your weapon got smashed on my watch, so I’m replacing it. Besides, I never did think of a nickname for that one. Might as well let you have it.”

“I see. You take pity on me,” scoffed the Scoundrel.

“Hey now, I didn’t mean anything mean by it,” Cyril said, holding his hands up defensively. “I can take it back if you want me to. Is that what you want, Val?”

When Cyril reached for the weapon, the Scoundrel pulled the weapon away from the Guardian’s grasp. “No, it is mine now. You put it in my hands. You lose it,” he said with a chitter in his voice. “Foolish Guardian. You cannot trust me.”

Cyril laughed, hooking his arm around the Scoundrel’s shoulder. “I think I can, Val,” he said, as he gave the Scoundrel a squeeze. “You’re a scrappy one, but I think you like me. And I can’t blame you. I am pretty charming.”

“You are wrong,” Valik protested, shrugging the Guardian off of him and snorted at the boastful remark. Hunters were always too cocky for their own good. “I do not like Guardians.”

“I think that’s a bet I would win, Val,” Cyril said, elbowing his companion playfully. “You’re a softy under them teeth and claws.”

Valik huffed, elbowing the Guardian back. He could deny it all day long, but it seemed pointless. Cyril had made up his mind about Valik and it would only be a waste of breath to try to convince him otherwise.

“I will make good use of the weapon,” Valik commented, looking back to the weapon in his hands. Hopefully, the Guardian would take the bait and stop teasing him. “Maybe paint it.”

“Do what you want. It’s all yours,” Cyril shrugged. “I hope it serves you well, Val.”


	5. Chapter Five: Nothing Left to Say

**Chapter 5: Nothing Left to Say**

One by one the remaining Barons fell. Together the Guardian and the Scoundrel had wrecked the Rider, sniped the Rifleman, and defused the Mad Bomber. They outsmarted the Trickster, extinguished the Hangman, shattered the Mindbender, and outgunned the Machinist. With seven Barons down, the Fanatic, and the Prince himself remained.

“Are you ready, Hunter,” asked Valik, watching the Guardian fiddle with his gun.

Cyril nodded and he holstered the weapon in question, offering the Scoundrel a thumbs up in response. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said, his tone betraying his nerves. It was now or never. He would either kill Fikrul and his boss or they would slip through his fingers. It was a terrifying thought.

The Scoundrel regarded the Guardian with a neutral gaze before nodding slowly to himself. “You are afraid,” he mused, reaching out and placing a hand on the Guardian’s shoulder. “Kill it now. Be angry. Be ready to attack. You will get your revenge. Valik will see to it, yes.”

The Guardian laughed. “That’s a funny thing to say to someone you hate.”

“Maybe I don’t hate you,” Valik said with a shrug, “or maybe I just want you to hurry up so I can get my revenge.”

“Whatever you say, Val,” he laughed, patting the Scoundrel’s shoulder in return.

Valik chuckled, shrugging the Guardian’s hand from his shoulder. “I go talk to Petra,” he said as he turned to the door. “Come when you’re ready. We go as soon as you are.”

With that said, the Scoundrel left the room, leaving the Guardian with his Ghost.

“Cyril, we need to talk,” said the Ghost.

“Are you breaking up with me,” asked Cyril.

“I’m being serious! This is it, you know. Their both at the Watchtower. Uldren and Fikrul. This is where your mission ends. The end. Justice… or revenge.” The Ghost paused, the pieces of his red shell shifting as he thought. “Uldren deserves what’s coming to him, Cyril, but… the why of what we’re doing is just as important as the what.”

“You think too much, little light,” he said, patting his Ghost in hopes of quelling those worries.

Albedo sighed. He couldn’t shake how uncomfortable he was with this mission, but he couldn’t tell his Guardian no. “Sorry, I just… I don’t know what’s going through your head. Just remember that you’re the good guy, Cyril. I know you’ll do what’s right when it comes down to it.”

“That’s right, Al. I’m the good guy,” Cyril said, pulling his Ghost in for a friendly headbutt. He chuckled. “Now, lets go finish this, alright?”

Their journey led them to the Watchtower, home to the Awoken people’s most guarded secrets. It was there, just outside the Watchtower, where dirt turned to polished stone, that the Guardian and the Scoundrel encountered the Fanatic.

“You enjoyed killing them,” said the Fanatic’s voice as he appeared with a bolt of arc energy. Fikrul stood to his full height, towering above the both of them before pointing his staff at the Guardian. “You enjoyed putting them in the dirt—  _ Where you belong _ ?”

The Guardian said nothing, simply raising his weapon and aiming it directly at the Fanatic. Following his lead, the Scoundrel pulled out his Shock Pistol and took aim as well. Both of them were ready for this fight. But so was the Fanatic.

“Did it make you feel  _ good _ ,” asked the Fanatic as he slammed his staff into the stone-like ground where he stood. A bolt of arc energy came down above the Guardian and the Scoundrel, dividing them when the dodged to save themselves from the bite of electrocution.

The Guardian retaliated, firing his first shot at the Fanatic. Fikrul flinched as the bullets pierced him. He growled, stepping forward and casting another bolt of arc energy the Guardian’s way, watching as the thing he so hated attempted to flee.

“Kaniks. Reksis Vahn. Yaviks. Pirrha. Araskes. Hiraks. Elykris. Tell me that killing my friends made you feel good.  _ Tell me! _ ”

A stream of bullets struck the Fanatic. Fikrul looked towards the source, spotting that pest of a Scoundrel. With another irritated growl, the Fanatic turned his attention back to the Guardian, castined another bolt of arc energy.

Another stream of bullets pierced his carapace, but the Fanatic ignored it, firing at the Guardian again and again, keeping him on his toes as he dodged. With each second he ignored the pest shooting at him was another shot he took. Finally, the Fanatic disappeared in a wisp of blue smoke.

“ _ He ran away _ ,” called the Scoundrel from his place on a broken stairway.

“ _ No _ ,” rasped the Fanatic’s voice as each of them became tethered. “I will pay any price...  _ to see you die _ .”

Both the Guardian and his Scoundrel pet were pulled into the Watchtower and through a barrier made of corrupted ether, powerless to stop their capto. The Fanatic reached out with a clawed hand, grasping the Fallen by his throat. The Scoundrel squirmed in Fikrul’s clutches, trying to pry the large hand off of his throat. Laughing, the Fanatic raised him up over his head before throwing him against a stone pillar. The Scoundrel gasped as he hit the stone with a thund, falling limp on the floor.

Released from his tether, the Guardian’s sights locked on Valik, seeing him lying lifeless on the floor. For a moment he stared, but the Guardian had his senses knocked into him when Fikrul’s electrified staff struck him, sending him flying back a ways.

“It brought pleasure, killing my friends. I’m sure,” Fikrul said, taking a few steps closer to the prone Guardian. “Uncontrollable bloodlust, taken out on all held dear.”

The Guardian pushed himself up, getting to his feet, nearly stumbling over himself. The Fanatic had knocked him down pretty hard, but he was hardly done fighting. Once on his feet, the Guardian looked up at Fikrul, who towered above him, and raised his weapon.

“Yes, good! Get up, dead thing,” the Fanatic said, his staff pointed at the Guardian. “It’s no fun if you give up and die!”

The Guardian fired at the Fanatic as the Fanatic cast another arc bolt. The Guardian dodged to the right, evading the attack by only a hair. The Fanatic winced as the bullet pierced him.

He laughed with a sickening rasp, “Go on,  _ fight back!  _ Show me how much you hate me.”

“You got it,” said the Guardian as he leapt away from the Fanatic. In each hand he held a fan of flaming knives. In two flicks of his wrist, the Guardian threw his knives.

Fikrul stumbled backwards as several knives sunk into his flesh. Each one exploded with enough force to rip him to shreds. The Fanatic fell backwards, landing on the floor with a heavy thump that nearly rattled the room. The Scorn clutched his staff tight in his clawed grasp, wheezing heavily, “The Scorn… are… forever…”

The Guardian stepped forward, standing over the Fanatic as the smoke cleared. He stared down at the lifeless Scorn, watching him for any sign of life. When he was certain Fikrul was dead, the Guardian let out a slow, uneven sign.

“Only one more name left,” Albedo said, sounding uneasy. “ _ B-but what about Valik? _ ”

Looking to the Scoundrel, the Guardian bolted over to the downed Fallen. He knelt beside him and rolled him over onto his back. The Guardian scanned the Scoundrel for any sign of life. Any sign that there was still something there. When it seemed that there was nothing, the Guardian shook his head and solemnly pulled out a grenade. He had a promise to keep.

In that moment, the Fallen gasped a slow, shallow breath. It was weak, but it was a breath all the same. Valik was still hanging on.

“He’s hurt,” noted Albedo. “He may not survive if we don’t get him help. We need to get him out of here.”

The Guardian stared down at Valik, watching him breathe his shallow, ragged breaths. The Ghost was right, Valik looked like he was barely holding on. He needed medical attention and he needed it now. The Guardian had to turn back and get Valik to safety. That was the right thing to do, but he didn’t move.

Looking to the hallway leading into the Watchtower, the Guardian felt a burning hatred at his core. Uldren was in there, just beyond this point. He was in there right now and if the Guardian didn’t act immediately he may never get his chance again. If he didn’t make his move, Uldren could escape the punishment he deserved. If the Guardian did not pursue his prey, he would never get his revenge.

His gaze returned to Valik, feeling conflicted. Like he was being pulled in two separate directions. There was a soft voice in his head telling him to stay and help Valik. A tugging in his heart that told him it was wrong to leave. But the voice demanding blood was so much louder. Almost deafening even. He felt like he would be split in two by the war being waged in his head.

But then the Guardian remembered Valik’s words. Never forget what the Scorn did. Always chase the pain in your heart. That’s what Valik would want him to do.

“Cyril? What are you doing,” asked the Ghost as his Guardian stood up and turned his back on the Scoundrel. “Aren’t you going to help him?”

The Ghost was ignored as he continued deeper into the Watchtower.

“He could die,” pleaded Albedo, sounding almost panicked. This wasn’t like his Guardian. This wasn’t the person he raised. “Please, Cyril. You have to help him. You promised you wouldn’t let him die. Please. Cyril, I—  _ I thought you were good! You’re supposed to be good! _ ”

The Guardian stopped in his tracks. He kept his sights on the path ahead of him. He did not dare look back at Valik, fearful that if he did he would change his mind. His Ghost’s words played back through his mind as he stared ahead of himself. He lingered for only a moment, but it felt like an eternity.

Shaking his head, the Guardian pressed onward. He had to kill Uldren. He had to.

“ _ He trusted you _ .”

* * *

The fight was won and the Voice of Riven was slain and in her place the Awoken Prince remained. Uldren laid prone on the floor, writhing in pain as he vainly attempted to squirm away. He was weakened from his time spent inside the Taken’s toothy maw. His ragged breath echoed through the room as he continued to struggle. But for now, he went unnoticed.

The Guardian who had slewn the Voice of Riven strolled over to the discarded Ace of Spades, plucking the busted weapon up off the ground and turning it over in his hands. Holding the weapon hurt. It felt like an unliftable weight in the Guardian’s hand that he was able to lift anyway. Maybe that was Cayde’s way of telling him the gun was his now.

The Exo’s eyeless face turned towards Uldren, approaching the Prince with purpose in his steps. As he approached, the Prince rolled over, looking up at him with a snide laugh and the Ace of Spades was pointed at him.

“Congratulations,” the Prince said, his voice dripping with venom, “you have my undivided attention. Now, where’s my sister?”

“She’s not here, Uldren,” said Petra, approaching with her own weapon drawn. “And if she was this would be a whole lot easier.”

“So, this is to be a reckoning then,” Uldren breathed, his amber eyes glaring up at the two of them. Like the flames of two candles nearly at the end of their wick.

“Wait,” pleaded the Ghost. “Not like this. Cyril, please. He’s finished. You can’t just—”

“You have no idea what he’s done,” shouted Petra. “If Cayde was here, I know what he would do, Guardian. Do you?”

“Yes, what would the notorious Cayde-6 do,” asked Uldren. “You have his gun. Seems you get the last word.”

Those words put a foul taste in the Exo’s mouth. Anger boiled up within him, right in his gut. How dare Uldren even utter that name.

The Prince forced himself up off the ground, leaning towards Petra. “Everything I did, I did for her.” His sank back into his place on the floor, his eyes turning towards the Guardian. “Funny. The line between light and dark is so very thin. Do you know which side your on?”

It was a silly question. The Guardian was only doing what was right. Uldren killed Cayde and countless more. He turned on his people and let the Scorn free. All of this was his fault, wasn’t it? Doing this—  _ Killing Uldren _ was the right thing to do. It didn’t matter how many Scorn he had to kill to get here. It didn’t matter how many times he risked his own life.  _ It didn’t matter that he left a friend to die. _

“Cyril, please,” Albedo pleaded once more.

The Guardian lowered the Ace of Spades, looking away from Uldren. Suddenly he wasn’t sure of himself. Was it the right thing to kill Uldren? Would Cayde really have wanted this? It was hard to say. But the memory of Cayde, broken and weak at the bottom of the Prison of Elders, was etched into his mind. Seeing Uldren lying there, a broken man, it was hard to resist the hatred he felt at the very pit of his being.

Shaking his head, the Guardian raised the Ace of Spades again. The barrel of the gun pointed directly at Uldren, right where Uldren had shot Cayde. And without another second of hesitation, the Guardian pulled the trigger and it was over in a flash.

There the Prince laid, lifeless and defeated. His life was ended the way he had ended Cayde’s and the Guardian felt nothing. At his core he felt numb. There was no relief. No joy. No catharsis. Only emptiness and despair.

Uldren was left there at the center of the Watchtower. The Guardian left Petra to do with him as she saw fit, returning back through the extravagant building. With almost aimless steps, he left the way he came, backtracking through the Watchtower and back to the last place he had seen Valik. He was intent on at least keeping part of his word and seeing to it that Valik got the burial he requested.

At the entrance, the Fanatic’s body was nowhere to be found. Approaching the pillar where he had left Valik, the Guardian found that he was gone too. Only a gun remained. The sub machine gun given to Valik by none other than the man who wronged him.

Had Valik gotten away or had Fikrul claimed him as one of his Scorn?

The Guardian sat down beside the weapon, leaning back against the pillar and looking up towards the ceiling. His shut his optics down, his vision going black as the events of the past day played over in his mind. He reached up and clutched the armor over his chest, shaking his head as he recalled the events that led to this moment.

He felt lost. Empty, mournful, and completely lost. But worst of all, he hated himself. He hated the man he had become. He hated everything about himself.

Reaching for the weapon with a shaky hand, he set it in his lap and pulled his knife from its sheath. Then he began carving a name into the weapon. In big, uneven letters he spelled out Valik’s name. He couldn’t allow himself to forget what he had done. He would have to carry this with him until the day his light left him.

It was what he deserved.


	6. Interlude: Nightmares

“Mind your surroundings, Alita,” commented one Warlock to another, standing over a fallen Knight as it burned away in purple flames. “Never let an enemy get behind you.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” She bowed her head to her Teacher. Her sights then set on the path ahead. “We should press on. The Hive has to be stopped.”

“I know that better than anybody,” commented the Teacher as she continued down the uneven path paved in bone and chitin, both snapping and crackling beneath her boots. “Try to keep up.”

“I-I will,” Alita said, following quickly behind.

With their weapons raised, the two Warlocks made their way into the ruptured surface of the moon, following the trail of strange specters and the sound of chattering teeth. Void and arc energy sang together in destructive unison as Teacher and Student cut their way through countless Hive.

Narrow valleys opened up to a large, slanted cliffside. At the farthest edge was a warped, luminous shape. A gift from the strange and imposing pyramid that loomed in the distance. The creation palpitated like a twisted heart with branching veins stretching from its insidious form to the dark, black sky above. The pulsating core emanated a foul, treacherous aura the likes of which could turn the bravest Titan on their heels.

“Nox, be careful,” pleaded the Student as she watched her Teacher approach the nightmare. But the student’s warning fell on deaf ears.

Nox reached out with a steady, unwavering hand, to place her open palm on the corrupted heart. But her touch was pushed back by a mysterious force. It pushed her back, her boots dragging in the dirt beneath her feet. Stubbornly, Nox approached the strange object

It sprung to life, taking on the form of a fallen Hive God. Crota, Son of Oryx. Bringing his sword down with a mighty swing, Nox only narrowly escaped certain death. The earth rattled beneath Crota’s blade, shaking the very ground the Warlocks stood on.

“Watch out, Nox,” called Alita.

“Not today,” Nox shouted, blinking away from Crota’s fierce backhand. Putting some distance between herself and the fallen God, Nox opened fire on the fallen Prince. She had no time to worry about how or why he was here. Right now, they had bigger things to worry about. “Alita!”

“On it!” Alita extended her hand and a concentrated beam of arc energy, blasting Crota with her Chaos Reach.

The god-prince roared as he fell to one knee. With her sword drawn, Nox rushed their aggressor and slashed at him with a fury. One cut, two cuts, and four. Upon the fifth strike, Nox’s blade shattered against Crota’s carapace.

“He’s invulnerable,” Nox called out before Crota sent her flying. The Warlock smacked into a rock face with a bone-shattering crack. Working against the screaming agony her body felt, Nox forced herself to stand on broken legs, laying down a rift before aiming down the sights of her rifle. She fired upon the waves of Thrall that rushed her in her vulnerability, never allowing them to get close enough to her to lay a claw on her.

“What should we do,” asked Alita over the comms as she evaded Crota’s ire.

“Survive,” answered Nox.

The battle was stacked in Crota's favor, but the two Warlocks held their own against this specter of Crota for as long as they could. However, it became more clear how unprepared they were for this fight when Crota called in for reinforcements.

Beside the fallen God-Prince stood the Fanatic, a Scorn baron the two Warlocks only hear tales of through Vanguard reports and gossip, and a villain every Guardian knew. Dominus Ghaul.

Nox clenched her teeth, her hands burning bright with void energy and fury. Her heart pounded with rage as she cast a spiteful Nova Bomb at the simulacrum of Ghaul, completely deaf to the chanting over their comms.

In an instant, Nox and her Student were elsewhere, safe from the nightmares.

* * *

“Nox, where are you going,” asked Alita as she followed her Teacher out of the Sanctuary. “You can’t possibly take these nightmares on without protection.”

“I’ve taken on worse, Alita. Worse than you can comprehend. We can’t waste time on some fetch quest while that thing rests beneath our noses. Not while it’s raising our worst enemies from the dead!”

“With all due respect, Ma’am, I think I understand the scope of your abilities,” Alita commented, grabbing her Teacher by the arm. When Nox turned to face her, Alita paused and averted her eyes nervously. She wanted to shrink away but kept her ground. “I know that you’re the hero of the Red War and I know you’ve taken on Panoptes and Xol, but you weren’t alone then. You had the Vanguard's support in getting you to Ghaul. As for Panoptes and Xol, you fought them alongside—”

“I can handle myself, Alita.”

“I-I know you’re strong, Nox,” pleaded Alita, “but this is more dangerous than anything we’ve ever faced before. Please, I don’t want you to get hurt! What would I do without you?”

For a moment that felt like ages, Nox silently stared back at her student. Her expression was unreadable behind her reflective visor. The older Warlock sighed and shook her head and pulled her arm from her Student’s grasp.

“Alita, I think it’s time I go,” Nox said, turning her back to the other Warlock. “I’m sorry I allowed you to get close to me. I never meant for you to grow attached. This is where our stories diverge… Take care of yourself. I’ll do the same.”

Alita watched in silence as her Teacher went on without her. She wondered if she would ever see her again. It hurt to think that she might not see her Teacher again.


End file.
